


the eyes that carry my light

by yuhneels



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eyes, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Internalized Homophobia, Las Vegas Era (The Goldfinch), M/M, Theo is obsessed with boris, Young Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuhneels/pseuds/yuhneels
Summary: My mother used to explain to me, why portraits look so alive- she said it is because of the eyes, that they're reflecting your soul, your deepest secrets... your hurt and emotions... that its the part of the face that shows how human you are.I never made big of a deal out of that and saved the new gained information in the very back of my head, focusing back on the other paintings in the gallery, never caring to bring that up in my head again- thinking it was utter bullshit... yet- I find myself getting attached to the dark brown colored eyes that still have a lively shimmer- a shine that reflects all thoughts in a vulnerable way... and I can't keep her words out of my head each time I again lose sight in the ocean of brown, that seemed to be addictive and pulling me closer to them.His eyes appeared like an opened book with a messy handwriting, that sometimes didn't gave the impression to make sense, but I understood him perfectly, as if I never even did anything else than study the mirror of his soul (as my mother used to describe eyes)
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	the eyes that carry my light

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for any mistakes (spelling, grammar etc) English isn't my first language (German is).  
> I tried my best making them as canon as possible- but yeah:) idek

_Something you realise quite early in life, but never seem to care to bring up- is how many colors, shapes and forms they come in- yet, there will always be a pair of eyes that'll bring light into dark places... into my dark place. A pair of eyes you'll know better than anything else- that you can read like a book that is written for kindergarten kids._

_My mother used to explain to me, why portraits look so alive- she said it is because of the eyes, that they're reflecting your soul, your deepest secrets... your hurt and emotions... that it's the part of the face that shows how human you are. I never made big of a deal out of that and saved the new gained information in the very back of my head, focusing back on the other paintings in the gallery, never caring to bring that up in my head again- thinking it was utter bullshit... yet- I find myself getting attached to the dark brown colored eyes that still have a lively shimmer- a shine that reflects all thoughts in a vulnerable way... and I can't keep her words out of my head each time I again lose sight in the ocean of brown, that seem to be addictive and pulling me closer to them. His eyes appeared like an opened book with a messy handwriting, that sometimes didn't gave the impression to make sense, but I understood him perfectly, as if I never even did anything else than study the mirror of his soul (as my mother used to describe eyes)_

_Boris is a very bubbly and opened person, but his eyes show his true shades...the dark silhouette of his past- sometimes they look lifeless and sore, but however always shimmering mysteriously in my direction- horrible bruises under them standing in contrast to his light, pale skin._  
_I've found myself staring into them, trying to find out what he's thinking about, not even realising that the set of eyes is doing the exact same thing, staring into my soul and my eyes exposing me to him._

_The scary part is, that he always knows what I'm thinking of- what I wanted to say... keeping things a secret became harder with time, so I surrendered and let him uncover my mental capacity- I surrendered to him and he knew it, but it stayed unspoken und ignored..._  
_He knows me better than I think- than I want to accept- he knows me better than anyone else ever did... and it scares me. It scares me how much I've got used to seeing those two eyes, staring right into me, revealing my whole mess of a mind to him, within seconds._

* * *

_NOT A SINGLE_ night goes by where I don't wake up in complete fear, clothes drained in sweat and silent tears making their way down my cheeks and either drop down my chin onto the thin, blue bedsheets or roll down my neck, leaving wet trails and stains. Every time the events of my nightmare replays in my head like scenes in a movie that I can't forget, my breath increases and my head begins to spin- but every time I look to my right side, to check if he was there, there to save me from my trauma- like a plaster for a paper cut- the pair of brown eyes, that look black due the darkness of the room (their mysterious shimmer still as present as the taste of smoke and blood in my mouth, an ugly company from the memories of the bombing like the ringing in my ears, almost as loud as the time where I woke up, covered in ash) and learned to love, were looking up at me. I saw a worried expression in them... my nightmares are a common thing, an unspoken one, but he always was worried, no matter how repeatedly nights like these happen... he cared, even if I don't wanna believe that someone still cares about me, at heart I know he does. He blinked a few times and scooted himself closer in my direction shortly before a pale, thin arm wrapped itself around my torso and pulled me back down onto the soft mattress and to it's owner, where I was pressed against a bare, sticky chest. I slowly wrapped myself around him like a koala, scared that if I would let go of him, he'd disappear like everyone else... that he would leave me... but I heard his breathing, his heart beating... slow but strong, which assured me that he was, in fact, still there. 

His soothing voice, that is accompanied by a hard accent, which is always the worst when he's tired, and soft humming, calms me down, the way I felt his chest vibrating by each sound that came from his mouth, him softly singing russian lullabies to my, which I barely understood, letting my breath settle a steady pace and soon I've fallen asleep again, my memory guiding itself back to the eyes, that were there to keep me safe and warm. 

I hate to admit it, that it's real. I need him- and it is wrong. It is wrong in the way that I want him, in the way I stared at him for too long, how much I sought his warmth at night and during day-I blame it on the alcohol or drugs, deep down- I know that the drugs weren't the actual reason why I'm like that.. they just made me realise my true emotions even more, what I actually wanted and needed, and I despise it. I despise myself.  
I shouldn't think of Boris like that, and I try so hard to just let go and move forward, to just ignore it- but I can't. I keep falling. Gravitating back to him- an aura surrounds him, an aura that is like home for me, that keeps pulling me back like I'm a dog on a leash that tries to run away.  
Since the death of my mother, I never felt like I was home until now, like I truly belong somewhere- don't get me wrong, I don't think I belong to Vegas. I hate it here- but I belong to Boris. He made me feel like my mother never died- like all those events were just a blurry dream I once had- and even if that feeling never lasted long enough for me to actually believe it and move on, it was there.

I tried to cling onto the 'Before', not wanting to move past it and enter the scary inside of the 'After', yet, I found myself becoming attached to Boris, someone I would've never encountered with in the 'Before'- but it feels like he's always been on my side, as if we grew up together.  
With him, time doesn't play a role, the past has happened and the future doesn't exist- it is just _him and me_ , against everything else- against _everyone_ else.

The Painting, my little bird- trapped in layers of newspaper, hidden from the outside world and light, Pippa, the red-haired girl I've seen, walking around the gallery with an old looking man attached to her hand- the man that lead me to Hobie- back to her- back to the girl that saved my life- all those things are still in my little 'Before' world, a bubble I've created and tried to keep its walls steady, yet, a slavic boy, with black, unwashed and thick curls, which covered his his pale forehead, a lanky appearing body that is thinner than my pinky, covered in bruises with his eyes sticking out the most, big and glossy, filled with past memories and trauma... they're telling his story- that isn't even a slightest bit lighter than mine- came into my life and completely shattered the fragile walls of my bubble in small pieces and guided me into his world, a new world, a mix between my ' _Before_ ' and Boris' ' _Now_ '. _Him and I against the world._

Something I always adored, maybe even were jealous of, was how Boris never thought as much and as far as me.  
I remember one morning, when he decided to snoop through my clothings, trying to find something that isn't soaked in sweat and spilled alcohol, with stains where you only could assume what their actual origin where. I was sleepily still laying in bed, flat on my stomach, blankets sloppily covering my torso, my left arm dangling from the edge of my bed ( well, if I could even still say that it was mine since Boris and I share everything- not to mention that I'm not even sure if it's my boxers or his that I was wearing right then) and with half opened eyes and a hangover headache watched his long, lean body making choppy movements, still oddly elegant. He was mumbling a song in a foreign language that didn't seem to be russian.

Everything was as always, 'til he pulled a light blue, wool looking clothing piece out of a corner of the closet- and even tho if I was still kinda fucked up from last night with a spinning head and tired eyes, without any glasses on, I immediately recognised it. The thing Boris had just pulled out of the small closet was one of many old cardigans from my mother... I didn't wanted to take it with me at first when I packed my things back in New York- but something in me said I should just take it with me. It was still hanging over the chair in the living room when the social workers told me to get my stuff, her scent filling my nostrils as I gently took the piece of fabric in my hands- just the bare glance at it made the corners of my eyes burn and water up, feeling how my chest tightens and all the memories flood back in my head ( how she wore it every morning, curled up on the couch, a cup of coffee in her hand and the morning news playing in the background of our conversation. She would run her fingers through my hair and give me a light kiss on my forehead before saying a ' _good morning puppy')._

  
My eyes widened in horror, I began to breath more heavily- I didn't know what to do nor what to say. I tried to get up, my weak arms immediately collapsing at the weight on them, which made me flop back on the bed and before I could start a protest, that Boris should put it back, throwing some insults at his head, he turned to me, a mischievous smirk planted on his slightly chapped lips, which had some small, thin, dark read wounds from him biting off the dry skin, and before I knew he slipped his arms through the cardigans sleeves- he did a small spin in front of me, to show me how it looked- and as much as I hate to say it- that stupid thing looked good on him- how it fell down on his underweight body, hugging his slightly curved waist, the sleeves being a bit too short due his arms being too long.

" _Didn't know you had girl clothing, Potter?_ " he teased, making me show him my middle finger, which made him laugh a bit.

_"fuck off, bastard"¨_

I didn't want to say it was my moms, even if it hurt me to see such a big memory of hers on someone so different- but it looked fabulous on him, and somehow- seeing something from my mother, someone that made me feel loved and appreciated- on Boris, another person that could made me feel the same (maybe even stronger than my mother did, but I didn't want to realise that back then-) had something calming- as if a piece of her was still living in that cardigan and was activated through Boris' touch, as if she was present again ... what if she's here right now, watching us- with her genuine, warm smile... happy that I have kept a piece from her-

" _B_ _ut I look good. Eh, I don't know what your problem is-_ "

As much as I hate to admit it, he was right, I didn't knew what my problem was. He mostly was right- yes, he did talk a lot of utter nonsense, sometimes it was even hard for me to understand what he was saying- but he often was right- he actually was quite intelligent, and I admired it... even if I feel stupid for it, but its true.

_"You look like a girl._ "

I joked and actually managed to get up and sit on the bed, reaching for the nightstand to grab my glasses and push them up my nose, finally seeing everything clear and not as an undetailed aquarelle paining that is behind the boy in the cardigan... in my mothers cardigan. I didn't understand why the fuck he was feeling so good in something that looked so feminine- isn't he scared that I would think he's gay? Because I would if I was in his shoes right now.

" _Y_ _eah? Well I'm a pretty girl then."_

After that morning, this idiot decided to always wear the light blue clothing piece- and even if I'm always teasing him about it- I was relieved somehow- seeing someone wearing that cardigan seemed as if she still was here- and it really did fit Boris perfectly... It looked out of place compared to his normal style- the light blue stood out when he wore it over black, baggy t-shirts and old, washed out jeans... but at the same time, it looked right... familiar yet, strange. I've noticed how much he took care of this piece of clothing- he makes sure it doesn't get dirty, treats it like its gold. I feel like he knows how important this is for me, that it belonged to my mother... and it made me happy to see him care so much. He always knew when something had a special place in my heart- he would look at me with a soft smile and listen to my rants... ask about stories from New York and about places my mother had brought me to- he always showed interest and no matter how drunk or high (or both) he was, he never forgot a single word I've said ( I often forgot conversations we had when I was too drunk and he would laugh at me while I eyed him with a confused look when he knew so much about stuff I couldn't remember telling him). He always had this proud glimmer in his eyes when he slipped inside the cardigan- as if he knew how much he made me happy with that.

* * *

_ONE EVENING_ , I remember it as clear as water- an evening that would change us completely...

We were laving on the sofa, our legs tangled together, the smoke from our shared cigarette lingering in the hot air, grey threads surrounding us, the TV playing some late night news Chanel. 

Popchyk curled himself up on Boris stomach, which is slowly lifting and sinking itself due his breathing... a vodka bottle being passed from his to my mouth-

It was an evening like the ones before, just that Boris was wearing my moms cardigan... he didn't care to put on a shirt, so underneath the blue fabric was his soft, transparent skin... slightly bruised... I couldn't keep myself from throwing glances at him- and I knew it was wrong, but how could something be so wrong, yet feel so right- it always felt right- how he let me cuddle up to him after a nightmare, how we would get closer than friends should get- all these things, memories from blurry nights like they were an illusion, never being talked about- they were burned in my head and wouldn't leave, keeping me confused on what to believe... It was wrong but god damnit- how could such a strong feeling of comfort be wrong??? I felt like a criminal that was addicted to his disgrace.

I didn't realise he'd caught me staring, I was too focused on my own thoughts, lost in my world of questions- questions that I knew the answer of but was to scared to allow myself to accept it. 

His lips curled up in a smirk and he kicked me in the hips, which made me flinch and curse at him, which was followed by his laugh- a very sweet, yet rough laugh. Popchyk didn’t seemed to like the sudden movement of his sleepling place and tiredly jumped of the sofa and lay back down on the soft carpet.

Of course, I wasn't gonna let him off the hook like that, so I mimicked his actions and tried to kick him harder than he did (hoping it would leave a mark)

And soon we were thrown together in a fight on the sofa that was way to small for two people, not to talk about two people that were hitting and scraching each other, insulting the living shit out of the other one-

Him being taller, was soon hovering over me, his knees securing my hands on the sofa, making sure I wasn't gonna break free. I tried to save myself out of this position, hating how vulnerable I am, laying like that under his captivity, but it was hopeless.

"Get off me, fucker!"

I chuckled, but he didn't obey... not even making any slightest bit of an hint from doing what I've just commanded him.

He started to tickle the shit out of me... like my mom used to do when I was a small kid- of course he was way harsher than she was, but I couldn't stop laughing and cursing at him, throwing every single insult at his head that I knew, while I was trying to squirm away from his grip- he was smirking the whole time, saying stuff in languages i didn't understood, didn't cared to understand, letting them enter through one ear and leave through the other like the nonsense blabbing from teachers.

After some moments he stooped and I tried to get my breath steady... but he didn't seem to make any move in getting off me- even after I tried to push him down and tell him to "get the fuck off me" he just shook is head and sat down on my stomach, making sure not to put his whole weight on me, as if he was too scared that if he would do that, I'd break in pieces ( he literally weights 100 pounds- the worst that could happen is that he'd stab me with his hip bones)

But suddenly, he brushed with his slender and bony fingers through my hair- just like my mother used to do when I was scared at night- why was he doing that?- not that he has never done anything like that before, but we are pretty much still way too sober for that shit... so it even troubled me more when I didn't seemed to pull away- no... I stayed still and stared right up to him, allowing myself to lean into his unusual, gentle touch and he looked down at me... with an hurt expression in his beautiful eyes, which made my heart ache, seeing him like that.

_" Why you lying to yourself Potter? Are you scared?"_

Something so out of context would've confused me, but I understood it perfectly- however, I was against this conversation to be started this soon- so I stayed silent, letting him continue playing with my unwashed hair, hoping so bad he wouldn't continue asking- it would mean admitting.

He looked sad... hurt- his eyes revealed that to me... he was smiling softly at me, but his brown eyes were betraying him and confess his true emotions without a single word needing to be said. Did all this mean more to him than I thought it would? I felt bad, bad for not saying anything, so I slowly opened my mouth so I could speak, even if something in me was fighting against it- against myself.

_"yes."_

And that's when he leaned down, his eyelids closing slowly as he did, hiding the beautiful color underneath- and for some reason I did closed my eyes as well- maybe out of fear what's coming next, hoping that it was just a dream and I’d wake up as soon as I opened them- but the fear vanished when his red lips met mine, my head turning off, knowing this is happening and _real_. His hand cupping my cheeks as if I was the most fragile thing in the world- he took his knees from my hands as he repositioned himself on me, and I immediately grabbed his waist and pulled him closer- I would regret it sooner or later, but now- there was just me and Boris. _Boris and Me against the world._

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I'm so sorry if there were any mistakes- I had a friend who was my beta reader (if you're reading that, thank you so much again, because I don't even wanna imagine what a piece of shit this would be without you) and she helped me with the grammar and gave me tips (if she would publish her work here I'd gave you her user, because holy shit- she's such a good writer, but she has wattpad 'byler_losver')-


End file.
